


Sun

by CrumblingAsh



Series: Final [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bruce Has Issues, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, In an unhealthy way, Iron Man 1, M/M, Tony Has Issues, Vampire Bruce, Vampire Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:38:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3541502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honest to God, Tony is waiting for Bruce to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun

* * *

 

 

As he watches the other vampire move slowly around the bedroom, it strikes Tony that Bruce has somehow remained the same man he had left behind years ago.

 

Honest to God, Tony is waiting for Bruce to kill him. In truth, Bruce is probably the only person actually capable of doing it – even more in truth, the only person Tony would actually _let_ do it. Because while there’s a list (a long, extensive, heavy list that grows with every unnecessary breath he takes) of names that would like to be attached to ridding the world of Tony Stark, Bruce Banner is the only one who has ever done anything to deserve the right.

 

Or not done anything, as it were.

 

He lays on his bed, cradled in a nest of thick blankets and expensive sheets, and still Afghanistan is at his back, its harsh sun burning into his unprotected skin, its sand sliding down his throat whether he breathes or not, its cold nights wrapped around his neck like the collars he had once so carelessly contemplated on another. He closes his eyes and he sees flare bursts, stops breathing and hears gunfire, licks his lips to wet them and tastes the stale blood of the unwilling dead (sees their lifeless eyes staring at him in broken, confused accusation).

 

“You need to eat something,” he hears, snaps up long enough to look at Banner’s back, still turned toward him. “Where’s … Pepper, right? Potts? She still around?”

 

(Hadn’t Bruce’s eyes held that same look? That same haunting betrayal, trust stolen in the puncture of fangs as he had struggled under Tony’s hungry hold, wordless begging cries squeaking from the body he had been _ripping in to_ -)

 

“I made her leave.” The words leave his mouth without actual thought, and he blinks, pulling himself up again, from Bruce’s fear, from his hazy lust, from the blood and the need – “You, you should leave, too.”

 

“ _Fuck you_.” It’s so heated, so volatile, but Bruce turns toward him with an easy grace, shoulders bent forward in inborn shyness a monster shouldn’t possess. The green that bleeds into his eyes is vivid and violent, hypnotizing as he slowly moves forward, snarl on his face. “I’m not your thrall, Tony. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” _Not again_ , going unsaid and so loud.

 

 _I’m sorry_ , Tony wants to say again. Wants to throw it at the man’s feet like an offering, slice his wrists open and give him the blood in sacrifice. _I’m sorry_.

 

 “Will you kill me?” he asks instead, flinching a little as Bruce snorts out a bitter laugh.

 

“I should,” he snaps back, and with no announcement tugs his sweater over his head, and because he’s a Godless man, Tony’s attention is instantly drawn to the revealed skin of his chest. The scars of his life are still there, the stories he had been _trusted with_ , still there. “What would you like? Poison, starvation, exposure? Old-fashioned stake through the heart? Torture?”

 

“Your choice,” Tony chokes out, and Bruce hums, shuffling slightly as his legs bend, pushing off his shoes.

 

“Damn right it’s _my **choice**_.” For a second, he looms over Tony, eyes still green, still raging their storm, still deadly. Selfishly, he revels in it, wants to reach for it, take it in and suffocate from it. But then it pulls back, retreating to the wounded brown he knew so well with a tired, tired sigh. “My choice.”

 

Tony is a monster, has been a monster since Howard had decided to meddle, has been a monster since he’s broken and beaten and killed and _taken_ , deserves nothing he can’t take and not even that – he jerks in pained surprise as Bruce flops to land next to him on the bed.

 

“What-.” It’s not a hand that flops over his mouth, but the crook of an elbow, warm and soft and dead against his lips. He feel the pulse of blood under the skin, and even as his eyes find the other vampire’s, his mouth begins to water in forgotten, desperate hunger.

 

“I _hate you_.” Bruce burns the words like an earnest promise, yet doesn’t move his arm. “You took _everything_ from me, Tony.” He pushes the arm closer pointedly, cuts off any protests before they can form. “This is better than unwilling blood. Drink.” Tony struggles, because of course he does, what the hell - “ _My choice,”_ is snarled hotly in his ear. “ _Fucking drink.”_

(On the floor of his Dubai hotel room, the human Bruce Banner had died a good man, transitioned into a broken, lost vampire that Tony, high on blood and drugs and memories, hadn’t spared more than a few moments to before he had taken off).

 

He can’t stop the whimper that edges from his throat, the need and the anger and the knowledge that he doesn’t deserve this. Feels Bruce’s body slump against his in a mix of exhaustion and defeat as he finally, _finally_ bites down, the blood that fills his mouth not quite living but rich on his tongue. Familiar. A nose tucks against his neck.

 

“Fuck you, Tony.” Softer this time, anguished; he feels the heat of Bruce’s breath against his neck as he grunts, hears the familiar snap and slide of bone and flesh as a wing, large and black, sprouts from the other’s back. “It’s … damn it, it’s okay.” Is he still talking to Tony, or to himself? “This is my _choice_. It’s … it’s okay.”

 

It’s very much not okay. He swallows, takes more.

 

The wing settles over both of them like a shield as Bruce pushes closer still, dragged under in the pleasure of the bite and the warmth of Tony’s desert heat, curling in closer.  “Just drink,” he murmurs, sounding sad. Tony whimpers again, gutted.

 

 

 

_(“Do you have a family?” Yinsen asked quietly, eyes glazed as Tony carefully, guilty soothed over the bite. He paused at the man’s words, thought of his father and his experiments. Thought of Pepper and her kindness, of Rhodey and the secrets Tony hadn't told him, of … of the man, of Bruce, content in his arms, writhing on the floor._

_“No.”)_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And now it's a series.


End file.
